


Heavy

by darling_dontforgetme



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darling_dontforgetme/pseuds/darling_dontforgetme
Summary: Cordelia happens upon the reader self harming in the middle of the night. Trigger Warnings for depression and self harm.
Relationships: Cordelia Foxx | Cordelia Goode/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Heavy

It’s the crying in the middle of the night that wakes her. 

You have been spiraling downward for days, but tonight, the bottom of what felt like an endless pit finally reared its ugly head. Today felt like the end, like your sadness was ready to take you away from here and keep ahold of you forever. The sounds of the coven had been overwhelming, circling around you in a way that made you feel claustrophobic, like despite being surrounded by all of this life, you were alone; an isolated part of the house’s inhabitants. Tonight though, despite crawling into bed with your lover almost five hours ago, you have yet to sleep. Instead, you had lain awake, eyes open and staring as your thoughts grew and grew and grew.

Now, curled up on the bathroom floor, you hurt. You sit beside the small nightlight plugged into the wall, hoping to minimize the light creeping under the crack in the door and into the bedroom. You’ve stuffed a washcloth between your teeth to try and muffle your misery, but how can anyone sleep when your brain is screaming so loudly? How can they sleep when everything is so fast, and heavy, and sharp?

When the door opens and Cordelia’s silhouette slips inside, the crushing weight of failure knocks the breath out of you, bangs on your brain in a way that says bad, bad, bad. Arms stretched in front of you, you drop your head onto your knees, letting the cloth fall in your lap. Delia flicks the switch, and you screech as the brightness of the overhead light suddenly blinds you, scrambling into the corner and pulling your arms into your chest, mumbling a mantra of no, no, no.

Your girlfriend’s steps are calm as they approach, light and delicate, and so, so Cordelia. Despite the urgency she feels, she doesn’t rush, she doesn’t want to overwhelm, doesn’t want to frighten. She can see the blood running down your arms, and the red marks on your legs where you’ve pinched your skin, the blade still grasped in your hand. 

“Sweetheart,” Cordelia says gently, kneeling a foot away from you with her hands up, like I won’t hurt you, let me help you, let me take away this pain. “Look at me. Can I touch you? Will you let me take care of you now?”

You bite your lip, blinking hard to try and rid the tears from your eyes, but they just keep coming and coming, like they could make their own ocean if given enough time. “Wait.” You whisper, pushing out your elbow to protect yourself, as if she would ever do anything without your consent. “There has to be three. They have to be in sets of three.”

Cordelia nods simply, like you’ve asked her for something easy, something that isn’t hard and hurting. But truly, you have requested she allow you to drag a blade across your own skin. She doesn’t understand, isn’t okay with you harming yourself, but you think she grasps the idea of how important it is that you finish, of how much worse things would become if she didn’t allow you to follow through until the end. Cordelia does understand hardship, she understands pain, she understands how it feels to be your own worst enemy.

Two more lines are required to complete the third set of three’s on your right arm, and it’s hard, knowing that she’s watching you, feeling that intense gaze upon the blood bursting up from inside of you. She waits patiently as you glide the sharp metal across your pale skin, not saying a word, not touching, never judging. When the cuts are uniform and perfect, evenly parallel on the wrist of your freckled skin, your eyes meet Delia’s and she holds out her hand. Anxiously, you place the blade into her palm, blood dripping off your arm and onto the expanse of tiles between you. This is real and raw and bare; distressing. Cordelia is seeing you at the peak of your suffering, seeing how ugly and dirty and stupid you can be. No, how ugly and dirty and stupid you are.

Cordelia sets the blade aside and wraps her fingers around your own, scooting forward to tug you onto her lap. You make your home against her chest, knees coming up and arms tucking in as you fold up like a fearful child. You don’t deserve this, don’t deserve to be held and comforted, but Cordelia is your girlfriend, your safe haven, and there’s always some weird invisible force gravitating your body towards hers. Despite your self hatred, despite your current belief that you should ache and struggle alone, you don’t want her to leave you.

Cordelia’s free hand traces your spine, lips lingering against your temple as she speaks. “Tell me what’s happening, baby. Tell me why you hurt.”

“I’m so tired,” you choke out, taking your hand from hers to fist onto her shirt, squeezing tight. It’s not the answer she wants, not the answer for what has led up to this moment, this bleeding and blades and pain. You fidget in her lap, trying to move your body closer to hers, but there’s no more space between you, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. Frustrated with your feelings, you rip your hands away from her shirt and into your hair, tugging hard, like it might slow down the thoughts in your head, might help you gain control over the emotions too large for your small body to handle.

“Shh, love,” Cordelia eases, gently unwrapping your trembling fists. “No, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You are crying so loudly, almost howling with the torment churning inside you. You reach to pinch at your thighs again, but Cordelia catches your hands and refuses to let go. “No more pain, tonight,” she says. “You’ve hurt enough. What’s happening in your head?”

“Too much,” you croak, hiding against her neck so you won’t have to look at her, too embarrassed for her to walk with you amongst this storm. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You never wanted her to see this, never wanted to put this burden on her. “I’m sorry for being too much.”

“No, sweetheart,” Cordelia soothes, stroking her hand through your tangled hair and gently working out the knots. You wish she could do the same thing with your brain. Simply wave her hand and the tangles inside of you would carefully and painlessly unbind. “I’m worried about you. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“You’ll be mad.”

She pulls back to look into your eyes, lifting your chin so she can convey the seriousness of her next statement, how there’s no room for argument when your emotions are clouding your thoughts, making you believe things that could never be true. “No, I couldn’t ever be mad at you. Not for something like this.”

“I can’t- I can’t-,” you finally begin, gasping in air, leaning back a little to stretch out your stomach. You want to stayed hidden against her, nestled into the crook of her neck where everything is safe, but the curled position smushes up your lungs and makes it harder to breathe. “I can’t do this anymore. I have to get out of bed and get dressed and eat and shower and eat again and it’s all such simple shit. Simple, everyday shit. But Delia, it’s so hard.” You break out into a sob, feeling overwhelmed and pathetic. You should be able to handle menial tasks, the same sorts of things everyone else completes. “I hate myself so much. I’m tired of feeling ugly, of feeling lonely. I’m tired of feeling stupid and fighting with myself. My head feels like it’s spinning. Nothing will calm down. Make it stop, please make it stop.”

You begin yanking on your hair again, scratching at your scalp in desperation. The blood from your arms has stained everything, your head and hair, Cordelia’s shirt, spreading like the pain within you. “I don’t want to exist, and that’s not me wanting to end everything. I just need a break, need for everything to slow down. I need to not feel for a little while.” Because how are you supposed to get out of bed, act normal and go about your day when you just feel so awful and worthless?

Cordelia’s hands cover yours, but you jerk them away to cover your face, like covering your eyes might rewind the last few moments, might make the fearful look on your lover’s face go away.

But your head isn’t done spinning, isn’t ready to cease the explosion that has already begun. “How do I know this is all worth it? When I’m crying in the middle of the night, and I’m alone, and my existence feels like more of a burden than something special, it really, really doesn’t feel worth it. Nothing does.” You’ve run out of air, lungs burning and gasping and begging for the reprieve your own body won’t allow.

“Close your eyes for me.” Delia’s arms wrap around your body, holding tight so the pieces of you will stop falling every which way. “Just breathe, pretty. Let’s calm down.“

You do as she asks, and things are quiet for a long time as Cordelia talks you down, murmuring promises and soothing words against the war in your mind.

“I want you to understand something,” she says. “I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Don’t let your head tell you any differently. When it lies, or you hurt or feel confused, find me, baby. Find me, and I’ll make everything better. You aren’t alone, even when you feel like you are. You aren’t stupid or worthless, nor are you too much. You aren’t a burden to me, sweet girl. You are worth so much more than the way you make yourself feel.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper from the space against her shoulder; guilty, guilty, guilty. “You don’t want this, Cordelia. You don’t want everything that comes with me.”

“No,” she says fiercely, cutting you off. “You have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t live without that funny face you pull when our eyes meet across the room, or the way you send me good morning texts even though we sleep in the same bed. Honey, you are so gentle. I love that you’re afraid of bugs, but you make sure I release them, adamant that they have a family to provide for, loved ones who care for them. The way you want to hide against me when you’re afraid or upset, just the way you know that I can and will protect you. I love you. I want all of you, sweetheart, and I always will.”

“You can’t mean that,” you whisper, doubtful that anyone could ever truly love you, admire your random quirks and habits.

Cordelia pulls you away from her again, forcing you to look her in the eye. “You don’t have to believe me, sweet girl. I’ll spend the rest of my life reminding you every day if that’s what it takes, okay? I’ll leave notes on the refrigerator, whisper it to you every morning and night, get it printed on every birthday cake you’ll ever have for the rest of your life, whatever it takes, love.”

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding somberly. It’s nearing three a.m., and exhaustion is taking over, slipping out from your bones and making you yawn.

Cordelia’s hand traces along your cheek before she presses her forehead against yours, noses touching. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

You collapse against her, needing one more minute, sixty seconds more of quiet and calm, safety. Once you move, life continues, but here, right now, it’s as if the world is paused. The hurt lingers, clawing for you from the background, but not quite able to reach. 

When you finally nod, detaching yourself from Cordelia so that the two of you can stand, everything begins again. Pain clenches your heart, and you bite down on your lip as the tears return, but there’s a soft hand in your own tugging you along. She leads you toward the shower, helping rid you of your clothes.

“I’m sorry,” you say before she has the chance to take off her shirt, your eyes lingering on the bloodstains across her breast. “I’m sorry I ruined your shirt.”

Cordelia just smiles softly, cupping your cheek and shaking her head. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

Your girlfriend guides you under the shower spray, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around you to help support your weak legs. You know you are making this difficult, that the tub would have been easier with your fragile condition, but Cordelia knows how you hate to sit in your own filth. You feel like you should apologize for that, too. “I- I’m sorry,” you whisper again, and your guilt grows and grows and grows, your mind once more becoming fast and tumbling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-“

“No.” Cordelia speaks firmly and palms your face with both hands, bringing your eyes to meet hers. “No more sorries, baby. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But I-“

“No,” she says again. “But what? But you think me helping you, taking care of you, loving you, is more than you deserve? Honey, in my eyes, you’ve hung the moon. I can never do enough for you. Caring for you isn’t something hard and heavy, it’s… it’s like freedom. Like fitting the last piece into a puzzle, like the joy of adopting a cat multiplied every second of every day. Loving you is easy, sweet girl. Loving you is the greatest thing I could ever hope for. I never, ever want to stop.”

Face crumpling, you wrap your arms around her, clutching onto her sides as you sob. Cordelia is so much more than you deserve. Her hands stroke down your back, and then she begins massaging the shampoo into your hair as your head rests against her chest. Delicately, she turns your bodies so that the spray can rinse out the soap, then she adds conditioner and repeats the process. Cordelia takes her time scrubbing over your skin, ensuring she removes every crimson stain, like she’s worshipping every freckle, every stretch mark, every inch.

When the task is complete, Cordelia dries and dresses you, then sets you on the floor near the vanity while she dons her own clothes and readies to bandage your wounds. You curl up, feeling vulnerable now that she is no longer attached to your side. Cordelia smiles as she sits down cross legged next to you, like everything is okay, like you hurting yourself isn’t even the slightest of inconveniences. “You’re cuter than cat snores, you know?” She says out of nowhere, and it brings a smile to your own mouth. “Let me see them, now.”

Trembling, you allow her to take your left arm, and she slowly and carefully slips it away from your body for her eyes to inspect. Though the cuts are rather shallow, many of them still bleed. Cordelia has seen the old scars along your wrist before, but it hurts her to see scabbed over injuries from recent days, weeks. It hurts her to know you have been suffering silently, have been hiding. She stops studying your cuts, and her eyes slip up to yours. “Tell me, okay? Always tell me. No matter when, no matter where. Don’t do this on your own.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, she doesn’t need one because she trusts you. Her fingers delicately apply antiseptic to your arms, gliding across the broken skin like it’s nothing, like you haven’t done this to yourself. A few layers of gauze are looped around your wrists, then Cordelia taps your nose and tugs you to your feet, leading you out of the bathroom. “Let’s get you into bed, and I’ll be right back with some Tylenol for you.” 

You shake your head, grip on her hand tightening as you intertwine your arm with hers. You don’t want her to go, don’t want her to leave you alone. Now that you’ve found an anchor of safety, of comfort, you never want to risk it leaving. 

Like a lost child, you follow her down the stairs, content to stand beside her as she digs through the medicine cabinet, eventually procuring the solution for your needs. You know you’re being stupid and clingy, but you can’t find it in yourself to let go of her hand. You don’t think you would be able to survive should anything separate you, even if it were for her to just walk across the room.

Upstairs, you slip into bed together, your head falling to rest upon her chest. Your hands fist onto her shirt, one of her arms wrapped around your waist to hold you close.

“Cordelia?” You whisper into the silence of the night, and it feels like you’ve broken something, like the acknowledgement of your presence is a burden on the whole world.

She hums delicately, one eye cracking open to peek down at you.

“Do you think… maybe… you could teach me how to be happy?”


End file.
